


When the Dust Settles

by prettylittlefears82



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie), F/M, Light Angst, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Relationship, for now, set during endgame so all that stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlefears82/pseuds/prettylittlefears82
Summary: Tony's funeral is a sorrowful affair. Guilt swarms everyone's heads. And they try to help each other. 𝘛𝘳𝘺.***"My heart is as pure as gold, yet my hands are as black as coal." - psychologicalparadox (site unknown)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Shuri, James "Bucky" Barnes/Shuri
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	When the Dust Settles

**Author's Note:**

> In context, that quote really captures the irony of his arm - a weapon really - being made and thought of which such care. Maybe even its owner himself having such a large capacity for love despite his blood-soaked past. There's also the fact of some of the more innocent Avengers still having taken lives and done things that one wouldn't equate with the word "innocent". It fits them all. I like it.
> 
> Italics are either his thoughts or haikus paraphrased from ones I wrote a while back.

Bucky keeps his hands tucked in his pockets as he strays the outskirts of the funeral party. He talks to a few people in groups he knows: there's Tony's family and friends, the Avengers, and people like him who evade both descriptors.

And he tries to figure out the rest: mostly the Guardians of the Galaxy, who he'll admit he thought were part of the enemy on the battlefield.

People stand in clusters, more of them than at the ceremony now, conversing, reminiscing, and sharing memories. He feels out of place, like a spectator, even though he's right here.

His eyes flit over the crowd once more after taking a quick look at the water in front of him. This time he thinks of dress. He sees formal wear of all kinds - ranging from jumpsuits to pencil skirts - in the same depressing black. Some are variations of armor, others suits.

He finds his closest friends in separate corners, Sam near the small cabin, leaning in to whisper with Steve. Shuri talking to the king, both looking especially regal for such a dim occasion.

Bucky's traitorous mind wanders to how lovely Shuri specifically looks in said attire. And how mature, like a light's been switched off, because it was just that easy, right? It took a flick of that purple wrist for everything to go to complete shit.

He was there. He could've stopped it. He _didn't_.

He flinches at the thought of a purple arm fit with a gauntlet. Then cringes, of shame, maybe fear, a little bit of both?

But Shuri...She still looks beautiful as ever. Maybe even more so. Meanwhile, he feels like something's eating at him from the inside out, and has no doubt it shows on his face. Shame runs through his veins, _they had a man who did the same with a more powerful energy, lighting_. Still didn't work out, did it?

Bile creeps up his throat. _Is this how Tony felt when he died?_ , he guiltily thinks. And he also thinks of the doctor, and his shaking finger raised in the air, the whole scene still clear as day in his mind. It plays on a constant loop, he imagines, in all their heads.

This was never very much of a team effort, he realizes now.

They're all too broken. The pieces would never have fit, ever. They didn't, not soon enough anyways.

There's a few outliers. Rays of sunshine gleaming through their gloomy crew: the Spider Boy, the woman with the antennae, Shuri, a few others. All of them, lights snuffed.

Footsteps rustle the grass a little ways beside him and he turns to find Shuri walking towards him, hands crossed solemnly in front of her. She stops when she's right next to him, feet facing the rippling water of the lake in front of them.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to give you the arm." she apologizes. "I didn't...um," he catches her fingers shaking as she tries to hide them from him - or anyone - so he assumes. "I didn't have enough time."

He wants to hug her, squeeze her, and never let go. He wants to place her head in his lap and comb through her hair with his fingers, telling her it'll all be alright. He wants to vanquish all her worries with a snap of _his_ fingers. But he can't, and that gnaws at him more than the point of an esteemed 'not-so-failure, but not-so-success'.

So he starts somewhere else, somewhere less risky.

"Shuri, trust me, I know. What you did was a good thing, and was pressed for time. I managed." He tries to lighten the mood a bit, too. "This serum's got me living forever anyways. I could wait."

He sees the corner of her mouth raise slightly, and internally pats himself on the back.

"I don't want to make you wait." she replies. She's lifts a notably now steady fist to her mouth, clearing her throat. "So..."

She looks up to put the hand on his shoulder, then starts slowly scaling down. He takes the hand out of his pocket and lifts it for her as she rounds his elbow then flutters her fingers over his. A particular finger stays just inches away from his index, as if she were to _really_ touch it. But she hesitates for just a second, and stays there as he holds his breath.

He almost jumps out of skin when she grabs it, then wraps her whole hand around his, bringing it to her face so she can see as best as she can. Bucky tries to imagine the warmth of her as best he can, a small thumb running over his vibranium knuckles, thumbing the bright gold of the design.

"How is it?" Shuri asks, almost sounding a little scared in her questioning, as if that mind of hers could do any wrong.

He wants so bad to look into those grounding eyes of hers when he answers, but she continues to stare at his hand. _She's still holding it_.

To no avail, he tries to still his heart before replying, "It's...amazing," almost unheard over the background noise. 

He wants to say thank you again, but that seems hallow, and his reverence for this woman is nothing of the sort. And either way, she wouldn't take those two words anymore. Would probably tell him that they're far past the spoken words.

So he doesn't, because despite himself, he wants to go even further.

She gives him a warm smile.

"Probably scared a whole lotta aliens, so thanks for that." He decides on saying instead.

Shuri shakes her head, smile becoming even brighter as she finally drops his arm and crosses hers over her chest. "That was all you," she says, and she looks at him like it really was, eyes bright and mirthful.

That's what he admires about her the most, he thinks. The amount of hope she has in anyone - _anything_. That she looks at a piece of metal worth millions and makes it priceless, because to her it already is. And that she looks at a broken man - in both mind and body - and makes him whole for the exact same reason.

He's overcome by a wave of raw emotion, staring into her beautiful eyes. The cold and the moon illuminate each shallow breath of hers.

_Her breath light as air_

_She's a painful distraction_

_One he welcomes now_

"So, how are you?" she asks, now staring out at the water.

"Tired." He answers truthfully with a sigh.

"You're tired of being a soldier," she says somewhat absentmindedly. 

He tries to think about that. To give her a true answer - answers that don't come easy as they should anymore.

"No." Perhaps sadly, he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of that. Serving, that is. "I'm tired of war. Being a soldier isn't about that - not really anyways - it's about serving a cause you think is right." He stops, places two fingers on his nose, and looks to the sky. Like some divine grace out there will give him the answer he needs.

That's because truthfully, all he's saying sounds like a bunch of wartime propaganda. He isn't quite as adept at explaining himself as he'd like to be. His feelings not clear enough, his vocabulary not large enough. He ignores that it isn't a fact of vocabulary, as some...temporary comfort.

He sighs. How does he tell her that this isn't about God or country? Hell, that he'd fight God himself if that's what it took to keep her safe? That his ever-lasting thought of 'is someone trying to kill me' is now 'is someone trying to kill _her_ '? You don't...you don't say those things. Especially not to princesses.

"For the past two years...you could say my mind has sorta been set on one thing."

"And what's that?"

Or maybe you do. When you love them enough to want to tell them the truth, even if it's only a fraction of the full picture.

He turns to face her fully. His face is partially covered by a curtain of hair when he says, "That's doing right by Wakanda, everyone who helped me, _you_."

He imagines she doesn't know what that really means. He hopes she'll never know...just how deep that statement runs, and how religiously he lives by it. It would scare her. It scares him, even.

And still, it's a small comfort of sorts. Having a purpose - one he knows he'll spend the rest of his days trying to fulfill. The end-goal isn't as satisfying as that part though. He doesn't know how he'll be able to watch her live out a life without him - with another person that _isn't_ him - but he'll do it. It'll tear him apart. But he'll do it.

Maybe that isn't so miniscule, because that's everything to him now: her happiness.

She scrambles to find a response. "Buck I would...I would _never_ send you into war. Not if you didn't want it. You're not a machine. You're a human being. With a life-"

"And this is what I want to do with it," he interjects, as if it's as simple as a few words. As if anything that has to do with her is, really. As if he couldn't fill a novel with a lengthy description of her smile, and a series with the goodness of her heart. And dear God, just forget her brain. He can't quite grasp her brilliance inside his own mind, let alone find the words to speak of it out loud.

Nothing's simple. But he pretends. And now it seems, so does she.

She sighs heavily, smoothing the fabric of his sleeve, pulling the arm - and him - closer to her. They stand, watching the water, words seemingly unnecessary. A quite acceptance of their situation, however bleak, passes through them both. He moves his hand to the small of her back, cautiously.

It's getting a little late, and he assumes the whole lot of them will be shooed off soon. But for now they hold each other, the faded background of hushed voices coming back to the forefront of their minds.

And they hold each other, as if that'll bury the bodies.

And they hold each other as if that'll clean the blood.

(And maybe it does, in their minds.)

_That's what they do right?_

_They will clean each other off..._

_When the dust settles_

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated. Gave a good day/night!


End file.
